Workhouse Angel

by Holly Green

  ‘It was near Limerick,’ she said. ‘It was called the convent of the Faithful Companions of Jesus.’

  ‘I know the place. And the nuns decided to send you home. Why was that?’

  ‘They said I was disobedient.’

  ‘Disobedient? What rules did you break?’

  ‘I didn’t … not exactly. I just wanted to sing.’

  ‘To sing? Was that so wrong? Is singing a sin, then?’

  ‘No. But I was told not to. It was in a special service and I was supposed to sing the “Agnus Dei” all by myself. Mother Marie Therèse wanted me to do it, because I had the best voice, but Mother Mary Andrew said I shouldn’t because I wasn’t … wasn’t in a state of grace. She told another girl to sing instead.’

  ‘But you did it anyway?’ She could see the beginnings of a grin underneath the man’s beard.

  ‘Yes. When the time came I just stood up and sang along with the other girl. Her voice isn’t as good as mine, and she just stopped, so I went on singing by myself.’

  He leaned back in his chair and looked at her. ‘Well, you’re a character, and no mistake. So, the nuns sent for your da to fetch you home.’ Angelina nodded, feeling a lump in her throat. ‘And that frightened you so much that you decided to make a run for it. Is it so bad at home that you’d rather be out here, alone, with no money and no friends?’

  She nodded again. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Is it true that your ma beats you?’

  ‘Yes.’ She paused. Thoughts she had been repressing were resurfacing in her mind. ‘The thing is … I’m not sure she is my real mother.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘Another girl, before I was sent away, she said my mama and papa weren’t really mine. She said I was … a foundling. I don’t know what that is.’

  The woman, who Angelina thought was the man’s wife, had come to sit nearby and she saw the two of them exchange glances.

  ‘We’ve many tales here in Ireland,’ the man said, ‘of bairns left by the fairy folk to be exchanged for human children. Are you a fairy child, do you suppose?’

  She looked at him in consternation until the twinkle in his eyes told her she was being teased.

  ‘I think I’d like to be,’ she said. ‘Then I wouldn’t have to go home, ever.’

  ‘So what would you do?’

  ‘I suppose I’d have to look for my fairy mother and father. Or perhaps they might be looking for me.’

  ‘So they might, indeed.’ He gave a laugh. ‘But until then, would you like us to be your family?’

  Angelina looked around her. The three young men had disappeared somewhere, but the younger woman was rocking her baby nearby and the children were playing. There was a feeling of contentment and ease. ‘I think I should, very much,’ she responded.

  ‘It’s not an easy life, I should warn you,’ the man said. ‘It’s fine on a morning like this, when the sun shines and we’ve a little money in our pockets for food. There are rabbits to be snared for meat and milk from our old nanny goat, and we can find eggs and soon there will be wild berries in the hedges. It’s not so good in the winter, when the rain gets into the bothy there and the van is cold and damp, but we get by. Don’t we, Dervla?’

  ‘Aye, we do,’ the woman replied.

  Angelina gazed around at the small encampment. ‘Do you always live like this, then?’

  ‘It’s the only way we know to live,’ he replied. ‘We’re travelling folk, and so were our fathers and their fathers before them.’

  ‘So how do you earn your living?’

  He smiled. ‘Come, I’ll show you.’

  He rose and Angelina got to her feet also, but she stumbled over the outsize shoes and nearly fell.

  ‘Lord ha’ mercy on us,’ he exclaimed, ‘you’ll go nowhere in those boots. Come here, I’ll carry you.’

  He picked her up in strong arms and she put one of hers around his neck. His beard tickled her cheek and he smelt of sweat and the earth, but she did not mind. He carried her round the caravan and over to a stone wall at the edge of a field.

  ‘There. See?’

  In the field there were around a dozen horses. Most were grazing quietly but on the far side three were being ridden by the young men she had seen the night before. They were riding round in circles and their mounts were snorting and sometimes bucking.

  ‘We’re horse dealers,’ the man said. ‘Those three are being broken in. They are Irish cobs, fine horses for all sorts of uses. When they are ready we shall take them and a few others to the Cahirmee horse fair and sell them and, God willing, the profit we make will keep us in sugar and flour and salt for the winter months.’

  He lifted Angelina up and sat her on a flat stone on the top of the wall. ‘They haven’t got any saddles. Won’t they fall off?’

  ‘Not them! Our boys don’t need saddles. They’ve been sitting on horses since before they could walk and they’re as much at home there as you are in an armchair by the fire. Like that, you can feel the horse and the horse can feel you. You know if he’s nervous or out of sorts and he can tell if you’re in a bad mood. It’s like you and the horse are one creature.’ He smiled at her. ‘Would you fancy a ride?’

  ‘No!’ she said in alarm. ‘I’d be frightened.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t mean on one of those wild young things. There are horses and mares here would look after you like you was one of their own. Irish cobs are the sweetest natured breed in the world. One day I’ll put you up on one and you’ll see.’

  ‘Oh!’ she exclaimed, pointing, ‘there’s a baby horse.’

  He laughed. ‘That’s what we call a foal.’

  ‘His legs are all thin and wobbly.’

  ‘That’s ’cos he’s only a month old.’

  ‘Is that his mama?’

  ‘His dam. Yes. Queenie’s one of my best brood mares. She gives me a fine colt or filly every year.’

  ‘She’s pretty. I like the way they all have lovely long manes and furry legs.’

  ‘We call that feathers, not fur. To be a real, true-bred Irish cob a horse must have long hair like that all down its legs to the hoof. Would you like to pat her?’

  Angelina furrowed her brow dubiously. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘There’s no need to be afraid. I’ll bring her over to you.’

  He swung himself over the wall and walked towards the mare, whistling softly. She lifted her head from grazing and greeted him with a whicker. He took something from his pocket and gave it to her, talking to her in a low voice, then took hold of her forelock and led her across to where Angelina was sitting.

  ‘Here we are. Just lean over and pat her neck. No sudden movements, and no squealing, right?’

  Angelina stretched out her arm and laid her hand on the soft, warm coat. The mare nudged her leg gently with her nose.

  ‘She’s asking for a titbit. Give her this.’ He produced a piece of carrot from his pocket. ‘Hold your hand out flat, like so. Now just offer it to her. Don’t be afraid. She won’t bite you.’

  He guided her hand towards the horse’s muzzle and she felt velvet lips lift the carrot from her palm. ‘Oh! She’s so gentle.’

  ‘What did I tell you?’

  ‘Oh look, the baby’s come with her.’

  ‘Yes, he’ll never be far away from his dam until he gets a lot older.’ He held out his hand to the foal, who nuzzled it hopefully and allowed him to stroke his neck. ‘We bring them up to be used to people. That way, when they’re ready to be ridden it’s not hard to break them in.’ He patted the mare on the rump. ‘Off you go now, my lovely.’

  The mare moved away and the foal followed, giving a small, experimental buck. The man watched them for a moment, then turned and lifted Angelina off the wall.

  ‘Come along. I’ve work to do. I’ll take you back to Dervla. I’ve no doubt she’ll find some occupation for you.’

  The two women had been joined by the eldest of the three children, a girl a year or two older than Angelina. The baby was ly
ing on a rug at their feet and all three were busy weaving baskets from thin strips of some kind of wood. The man set Angelina down in a chair.

  ‘There. She’s been introduced to the horses. Now it’s over to you.’ He straightened up and then something seemed to occur to him. ‘I’m Leary, by the way. Leary Donovan. This here is my wife Dervla, as you know. That –’ he indicated the second woman ‘– is our eldest son’s wife. Her name is Moira. And this scamp is our youngest, Sorcha. So now you’ve met most of the family, I’ll leave you to it.’

  ‘Can you weave a basket?’ Dervla asked.

  ‘I don’t know. I’ve never tried.’

  ‘Sorcha, you can show her. Let her start with the reeds, it’s easier on the fingers than willow.’

  The girl delved into a large sack and produced a circular wooden base with spokes sticking up all round it and a bundle of reeds. ‘You wind them in and out, like so. It’s easy.’

  It looked easy, but Angelina found that her fingers were much less deft than Sorcha’s and she struggled to produce work as neat.

  ‘Can you sew?’ Dervla asked, after watching her for a while.

  ‘Oh yes. I learned to sew in the convent, and I can embroider. I had to embroider samplers when I lived –’ she was going to say ‘at home’ but the words seemed wrong ‘– before I was sent away.’

  ‘I’ll find you something to stitch another day,’ Dervla promised.

  The baby had been sleeping peacefully but now he woke and began to grizzle. Moira put down her work to pick him up.

  ‘You’ll be all day with that basket,’ she commented. ‘Better you hold Sean for me and let me get on with mine.’

  She moved to where Angelina was sitting and held the baby out to her.

  ‘I don’t …’ she began. ‘I’ve never held one before.’

  ‘There’s nothing to it. Just make sure you support his head. Hold out your arms. That’s right, like so. There, you see?’ She settled the baby in Angelina’s arms and he immediately stopped crying. The feel of a warm, living creature in her embrace gave her a strange feeling, as if something inside her was swelling up. She felt suddenly grown up and responsible. When Sean began to grizzle again Moira showed her how to hold him up against her shoulder and pat his back until he belched.

  ‘There you are, you see? You’re a proper little mother,’ Dervla said.

  ‘You never held a baby before?’ Sorcha looked at her in amazement.

  ‘No.’

  ‘You got no brothers and sisters, then?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I don’t know. I suppose Mama and Papa did not want any other children.’

  The two younger children, both boys, had disappeared, but as midday approached they came running into the little circle by the caravan.

  ‘Look!’ the elder of the two cried, holding out his cap in both hands. Moira peered into it.

  ‘Eggs! Where from?’

  ‘Laird’s farmyard, over yonder,’ the boy said, jerking his chin over his shoulder.

  ‘You want to have a care!’ Moira said. ‘Farmer catch you, you’ll know all about it.’

  ‘He’s gone to market,’ the younger boy said. ‘We watched him go. Can we eat the eggs for dinner?’

  ‘How many you got?’ Dervla asked.

  ‘Dozen.’

  ‘Right. Go fetch me a pan of water and put it on to boil.’

  ‘Boys, say hello to Angelina,’ Moira said. ‘These are my two, Angelina. This one is Quinn and this is Danny.’

  The two looked at her shyly and mumbled a greeting. Then Quinn, the elder of the two, said, ‘Can we call you Angel? I can’t get my tongue round the other bit.’

  Something stirred in Angelina’s memory, a half-heard voice, elusive as a dream. ‘Yes, if you like.’

  Shortly Leary and the three young men came back from the field for their midday meal. Leary was carrying a brace of rabbits, which he tossed to his wife.

  ‘We’ll eat well tonight.’

  By the end of the meal Angelina had discovered that the young men were called Fergal, Killian and Brendan. They were all Leary and Dervla’s sons. Fergal, the eldest, was Moira’s husband, then came Brendan and Killian, who was only a couple of years older than Sorcha. As they sat around eating the eggs Quinn had stolen, she was aware that they were looking at her, and once Fergal said something in their own language to Leary, who replied in a tone that conveyed reassurance but also authority. Fergal looked at her again and shrugged, but then his wife said something and he seemed to relax. It made her uneasy. She had the feeling that he was questioning her right to their hospitality.

  The afternoon was spent in the same way as the morning, and Angelina was increasingly frustrated by the difficulty of moving around in her out-size shoes. Dervla counselled patience and told her that by next morning she would probably be able to put her own boots on again. As the sun sank towards the horizon, preparations began for the evening meal and she watched with a mixture of fascination and disgust as Dervla skinned and gutted the two rabbits and put them on a spit over the fire. The atmosphere as they sat round the campfire to eat was more relaxed than at midday and afterwards Leary produced a fiddle and began to play. He began with a lively jig and Sorcha and Killian jumped up to dance; then Moira and Fergal joined in and Quinn and Danny imitated them, while the others clapped to the rhythm. Angelina clapped, too, and wished she could join in the dancing.

  After a while, the mood of the pieces became more reflective and Moira sang a poignant lament. Leary lowered his fiddle and looked across at Angelina.

  ‘Do you know any of these songs?’

  She shook her head. ‘No, I’m afraid I only know what we sang in chapel.’ Then, remembering, ‘Oh, there is one English song I know. It’s called “The Last Rose of Summer”.’

  Leary laughed. ‘Sure, that’s no more English than I am. It was written by an Irish poet.’ He raised his fiddle and played a few bars. ‘Come on, then. You told me you can sing. Let’s hear you.’

  Angelina began hesitantly, but the sound of her own voice reassured her. She sat up straighter and gave herself up to the music. Even as she sang she was aware of a change in the atmosphere around her. Now she was the focus of all attention. When the song was over there was a brief silence. Then Leary said, ‘And sing you can, like a thrush on a cherry tree. What else do you know?’

  ‘Only the “Agnus Dei”, like I told you.’

  ‘Can you sing that without accompaniment?’

  ‘Yes.’ She cleared her throat, took a breath and sang.

  As she fell silent there was a murmur of approval. Dervla said, ‘That’s a rare gift you have, child. It’s a long time since I heard anything so beautiful. Thank you.’

  The thanks were echoed by others and Leary said, ‘Would you like to learn some other songs – songs our people sing?’

  ‘Yes, I should, very much.’

  ‘Then I’ll teach you, but not tonight. You’ve done enough for one night.’ He took up the fiddle and began to play again and the others began to talk amongst themselves, as if resuming conversations that had been suspended while she sang.

  At bedtime she occupied the same bunk as before, but this time she was aware that Sorcha had the one opposite, and Quinn and Danny slept above them, while Leary and Dervla had a bed divided off by a curtain. Moira and Fergal, she discovered later, had a place of their own, a tent erected on the back of a flat cart, and the other two men slept in what was called the bothy.

  As they settled Sorcha said, ‘You’re English, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Where do you live?’

  ‘I think I live here, now.’

  ‘But where did you live?’

  ‘A place called Liverpool.’

  ‘What’s it like? Is it a big city? I’ve never been in a city.’

  Dervla’s voice interrupted them. ‘That’s enough for tonight, Sorcha. Angel’s tired. You can talk in the morning.’

  S
he was woken as before by people moving around. The two boys had disappeared already and Sorcha was almost dressed, but when Angelina looked for her convent dress it had disappeared. Dervla came through the curtain with a bundle of clothes in her arms.

  ‘That dress you were wearing shows you up as a convent girl to anyone passing, and besides the skirt was ripped. I’ve some cast-offs of Sorcha’s here. Let’s see if we can fit you out.’

  Soon Angelina was dressed in a dark-blue skirt with two bands of embroidery round the hem, an apron, a blue blouse and a plaid shawl. Dervla’s salve proved effective, as she had promised, and she was able to put on her own boots.

  ‘There, you look more like one of us,’ Dervla said.

  When she had eaten her breakfast porridge Dervla came and sat beside her. ‘Leary and I have been talking. It’s likely that you are being looked for, don’t you think?’

  ‘I suppose so,’ Angelina agreed. ‘But I don’t think anyone would look for me here.’

  ‘Maybe not. But you never know. The polis like to come nosing around sometimes. I’m thinking one look at that fair skin and golden hair and they’d know you didn’t belong to us.’

  ‘What can I do, then?’ Angelina asked.

  ‘I can make a potion with walnut shells that will turn your skin brown. Maybe after a few weeks in the open air it will be darker anyway, but meanwhile I think we need to do something to help nature along. What do you say?’

  ‘If you think that’s the best thing to do,’ Angelina said. ‘I don’t mind.’

  Dervla stirred her potion over the fire for an hour and Angelina waited with growing impatience. It had not occurred to her until then that someone might look for her here, but now she was aware of the danger she was afraid that at any moment a policeman might appear and drag her back to the convent, or wherever her father awaited her. At last Dervla called her over and began to anoint her face with a rag dipped in the potion, smoothing it carefully over her ears and neck and up to her hairline. Then she treated her hands and arms the same way.